


Diaphanous

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, First Kiss, M/M, Making Out, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt - I was challenged to incorporate a little bit of what we've seen from the clips so far; mostly, the sheet. Spoilers until January 1!</p><p><i>He pauses, thumbs through John's gallery, his eyes going comically wide the longer he looks. John closes his eyes and prays for death. Quickly. By vaporization, or maybe rogue lightning.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Diaphanous

"I'm telling you, the guy’s socks were blue."

"Black," Sherlock retorts.

"Blue. And I'll lay you ten that I'm right."

"That's ridic - look, who do you think you're talking to here? I'm the-"

"Oh ho, Mr. Detective," John interrupts, triumphantly holding out his phone, the close up shot of their last victim's socks already brought up onto the tiny screen. “Look who's right, yet again."

Sherlock snatches the phone, stares hard at the screen. His fingers flick across the smooth surface to bring the picture up in much larger detail. He frowns, stares harder. "No, I still say they're black. Even navy blue doesn't get that dark."  John's just about to open his mouth to argue with him again, the smug glow of being right about to pour from his lips in a sarcastic flood when Sherlock slides his fingers across the screen again and his mouth falls open.

John's not quite sure he's ever felt his stomach drop quite this fast. "Um, hey look, black, blue, whatever, just, ah - " he stretches out to grab his phone back and Sherlock won't let go, curls his fingers around it more tightly, looks up and meets John's eyes.

"Why?" he says, and his voice is hurt, pitched low. The image of Sherlock naked, the bed sheet he'd wrapped himself in having slithered off of one shoulder and down across the top of his arse is now prominently displayed on John's phone. The picture is a bit blurry, a touch off kilter which betrays John’s haste, but it’s undeniably Sherlock.

John wants to kick himself. "No, Sherlock, it's not what you think. I've not shown it to anyone, I promise."

"How did you even get this? It's not like Mycroft told you what he was going to do, the bastard." Sherlock's embarrassed, his ears are pink and he, for the first time, seems unsure about what he had done that day.

John bites his lip, tries to stall.  Better this way, or have Sherlock think he's secretly laughing at him behind his back? He's not sure, but his mum always said that truth will out.

"I, um ... well, damn it, you were parading around in a sheet! It was sort of inevitable." John's blushing now - he can feel the heat up to the roots of his hair.

Sherlock frowns. "Well, yes, but that doesn't explain how you got it so quickly." He pauses, thumbs through John's gallery, his eyes going comically wide the longer he looks. John closes his eyes and prays for death. Quickly. By vaporization, or maybe rogue lightning. "John," Sherlock starts, and his voice cracks. "There are. Well." He clears his throat, tries again. "There are quite a few photos of me in that sheet. In here. Which means you had your camera on almost three hours, if you were ready to snap that, ah, particular shot when you did."

John nods. Accepts his fate. Oh God, how will he find a flat so close to Christmas? Perhaps he can stay with Harry until after the New Year. He opens his eyes, "I'm sorry," on the tip of his tongue, only to find Sherlock staring at him with a gleam in his eye and a quirked smile.

"So, not blackmail shots, then?" Sherlock says slowly, his voice gone dark and smooth as molasses.

John shivers, shakes his head. "No. Never."

"Just a little something for your own amusement."

Sherlock walks closer, close enough John can feel the heat from his body and he knows he's doomed, but it seems his fate will be of a much more pleasant sort than he'd imagined earlier. He swallows, nods.

“How very interesting,” is Sherlock’s reply, and he sweeps from the room, his long coat swirling around him as he clatters down the stairs, calling for Lestrade.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sherlock has been holed up in his room since they got back an hour ago.

It makes John nervous.  Sherlock’s lack of a more obvious reaction earlier is worrying, because Sherlock is nothing but unpredictable at the best of times. Well, that isn’t precisely true. Given a choice of reactions, Sherlock will inevitably pick the most inappropriate, most obnoxious, most surprising, most childish. Generally.

John’s been trying to counter the silence and keep his mind off the possibilities with an old movie and a pathetic stab at updating his blog, but the longer he sits the more tense he becomes. Sherlock hadn’t said another word, hadn’t twitted him about his pictures, hadn’t even alluded to it the entire way home.

Which means Sherlock is either uncomfortable or embarrassed by it.  John’s ridiculous crush on a man, his first in years, just has to be _this_ man. Couldn’t be Murray, or Carson, or any of the blokes he sees on a regular basis, oh no. Has to be the insane one, the brilliant one, the one with a razor sharp tongue and a body that left him half-hard most of the time, covering his lap with the newspaper or staying seated at the breakfast table far too long.

John sighs deep at his own immature fantasies and is about to give the movie up as a bad job when Sherlock’s door opens and he trails into the room, utterly stark naked but for a single white sheet that falls in diaphanous folds from his shoulders, dipping so low in the back it exposes the delectable curve of his arse.

John drops the remote, sits back hard in his chair. Of all the things he could have done, he’s chosen this, and it makes John’s hear hammer in his chest, his brain spark to life with a jolt. Oh sweet Christ, he has a freckle on his back, right in the center of his spine, and John aches to kiss it.

 “I thought you might like a better picture,” he purrs, and John doesn’t hesitate, fumbles for his phone as Sherlock looks coyly over one shoulder. John’s hand is shaking as he lifts the camera, snaps a single frame of that gorgeous body. He tries to turn the camera off but his clumsy fingers can’t manage the task.

“Fuck it,” he hisses, throws the phone down and reaches for Sherlock, pulls him down into his lap with enough speed and force Sherlock lets out a surprised squeak that quickly shifts to a moan as John applies his lips to Sherlock’s spine. John revels in devouring miles of soft skin with lips and tongue, tasting the sweetness of the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  He slides his hands under the sheet and around Sherlock’s hips to rest on his thighs.

“Oh,” Sherlock sighs. “Oh, _fuck_. John, I want—“

“Yes, Christ, yes.”  John wants everything, wants those thighs wrapped around his waist, wants to see that elegant neck arched with passion. He traces the cut of Sherlock’s abs down to his groin, pushes his fingers through coarse hair and cups the heavy weight of Sherlock’s balls in his hand for a moment, brushes his lips across Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock leans back heavily, resting most of his weight against John’s chest. He works his hips in a slow circle against John’s lap and John’s mind goes blissfully foggy. Sherlock is gangly and tall and overwhelming sitting like this, but the skin of Sherlock’s cock is hot and silky under his fingertips, and sitting next to the fire with a lapful of naked Sherlock and giving him a nice, slow wank sounds like an exquisite idea. John strokes him from root to tip, setting a languid rhythm that has Sherlock arching and sighing in pleasure.

John’s just considering how to get his own flies undone with one hand when Sherlock suddenly stands, pulls himself away from John’s caress. John falters, his hands bereft and wondering if he has pushed too far, too fast, but Sherlock turns back to him and holds out a hand.

“I think my room would be more comfortable than here, don’t you think?”

John smiles.  As always, Sherlock is a surprise and John is addicted to adventure, after all. So John takes his hand and follows him to the dark, warm quiet of his room, the sheet forgotten on the floor.


End file.
